


The Two Dahlias

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Established Relationship, Gen, M/M, Mpreg, takes plan in a universe where males and females alike can get pregnant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-31 05:23:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1027729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is determined to solve the case, even when on the brink of having his first child.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Case

**Author's Note:**

> Hello friends, this'll be my first fic after some amateur private drabbling and roleplays. I intend to keep this relatively short, but I make no promises. I'll try to update this often (hopefully every day), and do hope you enjoy!

“What are the facts?”

“A female body turned up in Hertfordshire, an estate agent found her in an empty house. A girl was also reported missing two weeks ago and we’re seeing if we can maybe link her to the body.”

“Cause of death?”

“It's looking like a blow to the head, but it’s a bit more complicated than that.”

"How complicated?"

"Well... the body's severed at the waist. She's in two pieces, and covered in cuts"

Sherlock parsed this information carefully, hands steepled together under his chin. After a moment, he looked decidedly at the detective inspector and then whirled around, preparing to leave the office room. “I’ll require a full pathologist’s report and DNA samples from the body. Also, contact details of the family of the missing girl. May need to speak to them…”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade interrupted. “Maybe you should sit this one out.”

Sherlock, who had been more thinking aloud than partaking in conversation, broke his musings and turned back, meeting Lestrade with a glaring look that dismissed the suggestion as extremely odd. “Why should I? You can’t deny that you need my help for this case, and your incompetent team will not entertain this as a murder until they are finished examining irrelevant details, by which time the culprit may strike again. You _need_ me.”

From the growing intensity, and even desperation, in Sherlock’s voice, it was quickly apparent that Sherlock needed the case more than the case needed Sherlock – someone was clearly bored at home. Sensing this, Lestrade was very gentle when he spoke next, “Mate, I’m not being funny, but you’re about to pop.”

The man gestured tactfully at Sherlock’s stomach, which was greatly rounded and pushing out against the striped top he was wearing – borrowed from John when his own stopped fitting him months ago. Sherlock glared harder and wrapped his coat around himself, hating the coddling. He got enough of it at home, he did not want it here. “I have time,” he muttered.

“Does John even know you’re here?”

Sherlock groaned. How annoyingly indulgent John had been lately, doing everything for him and making sure he ate three meals a day, and how he would fuss if he knew that Sherlock was seeking cases in his ninth month of pregnancy. The only reason Sherlock had been able to get out of the flat was because John was at work and unable to confine him to hateful bed rest.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Lestrade said in a mild scold as he saw Sherlock quieten and glance away. However, he was sympathetic and softened himself. “Look, if I give you the bloody report and some odd files, do you promise that you’ll stay at home and take it easy?”

“And the contact details.”

“Sherlock!”

“Oh _fine_.” Sherlock moodily flounced after the detective inspector, when he walked to his desk to gather the files up. As he shuffled and sifted through papers and file boxes, Sherlock cast a scowl down at his protruding stomach, as if to say _I hope you appreciate what I put up with for your sake._ Feeling an internal wriggle, as though in response, he let out a sigh and put a hand on himself.

Lestrade glanced up and smiled, “When are you due then?”

“Small talk is beneath you, Lestrade.”

“I’m not making small talk, you daft sod.” Slightly offended that Sherlock had indirectly accused him of not being truly interested, Lestrade handed over a plastic wallet filled with papers and attached photographs. He then tucked his hands into the pockets of his trousers, resuming casual posture. “Exciting though, isn’t it? You and John, about to be dads.”

As though syntactically analysing the question along with the case information, Sherlock replied monotonously while looking down at the case files in his hands. “Yes.”


	2. Dahlia

When John arrived home that evening, Sherlock was dressed in a loose T-shirt and pyjama bottoms, sitting cross-legged on the living room floor amongst spread out papers and photographs. He was silent and contemplative, even when John called him a greeting. Even when the smell of greasy chip shop food filled the flat and spiked a wave of nausea in him. He twitched with irritation, his mind fighting to concentrate through the inclination to vomit and the baby’s pressurised movements; it clearly did not appreciate the way Sherlock was sitting.

“Got your dinner,” John smiled as he passed his partner, shrugging away his coat then peering down at the scattered papers. “What’s this?”

“It’s a case,” Sherlock said through clenched teeth, opening his eyes and sighing out angrily as he gave up his train of thought; too distracted to continue. “And at this crucial stage, I can’t be slowed down by digestion.”

“How many times am I going to have this discussion with you?” John sighed, preparing to go through the same pattern of words that would no doubt fall on deaf ears. “You’re pregnant. The baby _needs_ you to eat so that it’ll be healthy.”

Succumbing to the baby’s internal bombardment, Sherlock huffed out and sat back, arms straight and palms flat against the floor. He felt it go still, slightly stretch out, then curl back up, apparently more content at the slight allowance of room. “I’d say it is already a healthy size,” he sighed, looking down at himself. The T-shirt didn’t quite cover him while he was leaning back. “I’ve never felt more ungainly in my life.”

“I think you look gorgeous.” John smiled, squatting down to kiss his temple. Sherlock swatted him away, though half-heartedly out of some kind of stubbornness rather than an actual want to keep him away. He liked to be reminded that John still desired him, still wanted to take him to bed - but he would never admit to that much. Insecurity was so unbecoming.

Before they could resume quarrelling over whether or not Sherlock was going to eat, John took more careful notice of the papers and titled his head as he read, squinting. “I’ve not seen this one before.”

Sherlock hesitated. “That is because I’ve only just acquired it.”

“Only just… ? Oh Sherlock, no. No new cases, not now.”

“John, in only one afternoon I’ve discovered more than the whole of Scotland Yard has in the days they’ve been aware of this case. Look,” Sherlock, with a huff and a marginal amount of difficulty, leant forward and snatched a photo to show him. John, about to dismiss it and enforce the ‘you’re going to have our baby any day now, can you keep out of danger for five minutes’ stance, sighed out and indulged him, looking down at the photo.

In the photo, was a woman’s corpse. Severed at the waist, with her arms above her head. John grimaced and glanced across the floor. More photos of the same body, at different lengths and angles. Some focused on the multiple cuts on her thighs and breasts, others on organs that had been removed from the body either during the autopsy or the grizzly event itself.

One particularly unpleasant photo displayed the victim’s face in full view – young, pale, vacant half-opened eyes, with a long slash from the corners of her mouth to her ears. It looked like some kind of gruesome ‘smile’ effect.

“Do you see?” Sherlock urged.

“What am I looking for?”

“Pray our child doesn’t inherit your incredible ability to miss the obvious,” he sighed, setting the photograph down. “We are dealing with a copycat murderer. The way the victim was killed, the way her body is posed, even her _appearance_ is identical to that of the Black Dahlia.”

John’s brow furrowed, glancing between Sherlock and the scattered papers. “The what?”

“Infamous unsolved murder. Took place in 1947, murderer was never found.” Sherlock vaguely uttered, smoothing his hand over a selection of documents that he had deemed important enough to single out and spread in front of his crossed legs. “The copycat has re-enacted the murder, and I would suppose intends to never be found, on par with the original killer. It was brutal but it was… amateurish. Not pure naked evil. The killer had never killed prior to now.”

John nodded his vague understandings, though still carried an air of disapproval. He glanced back to Sherlock, who was focusing intensely on the work below him and was now muttering silent notes to himself; he knew Sherlock wouldn’t part with the case now that he had sunk his teeth into it. At the very least, John could be there for damage control. God knows why he ever thought pregnancy would make Sherlock Holmes a bit more sedate.

Not disturbing him any further, John plated some chips and placed them down next to Sherlock on the floor. He would come back soon to make sure they had been eaten.


	3. Hypothesis

Long after John had retired to bed, Sherlock was still up and pacing the living room with increased agitation. His mind was a hive of activity, abuzz with data and electric-like charge, running like a disjointed circuit attempting to connect. Case-victim-black-dahlia-copycat-motive-obsession-amateur-mistake- _mistake._

_There has to be a mistake._

While Sherlock had been so preoccupied with his dissections of the case, he had failed to notice that his body had been separately reacting to a different kind of stimuli. It went unnoticed for about two hours, until he felt exhausted enough to sit - it was then that he became aware of a mild pressing sensation disturbing his mid-section. When it quickly dissipated, he deleted it and resumed his circuiting thoughts.

Another hour of silently navigating the living room, and the pressing feeling returned. In seperate bouts this time, roughly four an hour. He ignored it.

Hour four came, and the pressing did not relent. This time, he decided to pause, putting a hand to his back. It was something to do with the baby, that much was obvious. There was no pain, but it was... distracting, unpleasantly so. Breathing deeply in, Sherlock cleared his mind temporarily in order to take stock.

_Hypothesis: the baby is disturbed by my movements and is kicking._

No, he thought, immediately dismissing that theory as false. This was not the protest of tiny limbs, he was well aware of what they felt like. This was a dull pressure in the muscles of his stomach, the baby was not causing it.

_Hypothesis two: I am experiencing Braxton Hicks._

Again, unlikely. He had experienced Braxton Hicks before - irregular and dissipating within an hour. These were annoyingly persistent. Sherlock glanced downward as he acknowledged his third theory, realising that his hand was spread under his belly, cradling it without conscious thought.

_Final hypothesis: I am in the early stages of labour._

Sherlock nodded to himself, as though to confirm it and decide on a course of action from there. Obviously, at some point, he would have to give birth. At four painless contractions an hour, he possibly had twelve to twenty four hours before he would be completely incapacitated. After which, he would be rendered immobile for however long it took to recover from the birth. By that time, the killer may have either killed again or fled.

The thought of leaving the case unsolved at this point made Sherlock's blood fizz with frustration. He couldn't stop now, and he still had time. Telling John or even having him _suspect_ that labour had begun was out of the question.

Visibly gathering himself, Sherlock was decided.


	4. Curious

“John. John, wake up.”

“Mmm.”

“ _John_.”

Sherlock roughly jostled his bleary partner, who groaned and slowly rolled onto his side. He squinted, watching as Sherlock pulled another borrowed shirt down over his belly and grabbed his scarf, wrapping it around his neck with quickened pace. “Get dressed. We’re going to Scotland Yard.”

Not quite hearing him, John rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?”

“Irrelevant,” he immediately answered, grabbing his coat. The still-dark sky outside suggested that it was quite early in the morning. “They have the victim’s mother in questioning, I have to speak to her before they let her go.”

Sitting up, John frowned and stared at him, eyes darting as Sherlock moved to and fro across the room. “Sherlock, the police will talk to her. You should be resting.”

“No.” Was the simple answer.

“Sherlock…” John began with a sigh.

“John, I am _going_ to Scotland Yard this minute and if you are not dressed then don’t think that I won’t leave without you. I am not going to do anything that will harm myself or the blessed child, seeing as you _always_ seem to be entertaining that as a possibility.”

Sherlock suddenly halted, realising the agitation was rising in his voice and that John would be quick to ask him where such harshness had come from. In truth, he had not meant to take aim at John. He was growing increasingly uncomfortable (the developing contractions, though still relatively painless, were growing in intensity) and he had already wasted enough time waiting for John to wake up. The sensation was novel – pressure of the case, tinged with… fear? _Why fear?_

He took a deep breath and visibly cleared his visage, facing John, who was in fact looking at him with a questioning stare. “I am sorry,” he said, as he felt his stomach cramp. It made him breathe in sharply, to which he masterfully managed to feign as difficulty apologising. “I’m… not used to having these limitations. They do sometimes frustrate me, but I shouldn’t take that out on you. I’m sorry, John.”

A moment, where they just seemed to look at each other. _Please don’t ask, please don’t ask_ , Sherlock mentally pleaded, wanting for John to just get out of bed and do this for him, then, afterwards, he would concern himself with the baby. To his relief, and moderate guilt, John’s expression melted into one of sympathy and he rose out of bed, crossing the room to meet Sherlock.

“I know it’s all been a bit quick,” John said with a small sad mile, standing in front of him. “One minute we’re bachelors with the most dangerous lifestyle in the world, the next we’re an expecting couple. It’s still a bit weird for me too, in a good way, I mean. Wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

_Now is not the time for this conversation, John. We need, I need to…_

“I love you.” John said, cradling Sherlock’s stomach in his hands and looking at him with that typically-John expression of pure warmth that spoke volumes.

Sherlock strained a smile in return. “I love you too.” He ducked his head down, kissing the doctor in a moment of genuine affection. He had half-lied to his partner, the father of his child, but the baby was safe for the time being, and it would all be worthwhile; they would have their child and the copycat would be behind bars.

Pulling away, he spoke with softer notes, “I promise I will rest when I have done what I need to do. Will you get dressed, please?”

Smiling still, John turned away and quickly began to shuffle into his jeans.

* * *

Feeling his throat tighten, Sherlock dug his hand into his pocket and squeezed the inner linings of his coat hard as he seated himself at the interrogation table; somewhere between leaving the flat and arriving at the Yard, the contractions had begun to border on painful. He had nearly given himself away in the cab, when he felt a flood of pain inside him that he had been utterly unprepared for. Had he not bit the inside of his cheek and looked the other way, John may have noticed.

“Thank you for coming in today, Ms Barlow.” Lestrade, seated beside Sherlock, kindly said to the emotionally subdued but clearly dishevelled woman sitting on the other side of the table. John, not assisting with the actual questioning, was waiting in the corridor; engaged in a rather heated discussion with Sergeant Donovan over Sherlock’s right to be there (and his ability to raise a child.)

Lestrade continued, “We just want to ask you a few questions about your daughter. Take your time with it, by all means, and you can leave whenever you want to. Can we get you some water?”

The woman, lifting a scrunched tissue to her nose, shook her head. Sherlock took this as his cue to step in, and very much noticed the stern look Lestrade was giving him. He knew what it meant, of course. It was a warning, that he was to be _very_ gentle with the victim’s mother who was still grieving for her daughter whose life had been ended in a horrific way.

Clearing his throat, Sherlock attempted to maintain what normal people would consider ‘gentle.’

“Ms Barlow,” Sherlock began, leaning forward a tad. “I want to begin by asking you about your daughter’s temperament.”

“I was never that close to my Amy,” she said with a break in her voice, mopping her nose and eyes. “She was young, going through a rebellious stage, I suppose. “

“I see. So she flaunted your authority often?”

Ms Barlow gave a mingled shrug. “She never told me what she was doing, or even what she liked to do. Whenever I heard something, it’d always be drinking or drugs or talking to strangers… “

_Like the original Black Dahlia victim._

Sherlock perked, mentally rewinding. “She talked to strangers?”

“Yes,” she said, mournfully. “Online.”

“On what medium?”

When the woman looked confused, Lestrade carefully leant in to elaborate. “He means… you know, Twitter, Facebook. All those kinds of sites.”

Looking down at her lap, Ms Barlow took in a shaking breath. “I-I don’t know. I think it was some kind of dating website- “

“ _Ah!_ ”

It hit him like an awful spasm, so strong and sudden that Sherlock’s only reaction was to cry out against it and tense his whole body. Lestrade and the victim’s mother both stared at him, watching as a sweat broke on his brow. It quickly, blessedly, faded and Sherlock blew out a breath. He realised then that he was being stared at.

Lestrade was the first to speak. “Sherlock, do you… do you need to-“

“No. It was just an uncomfortable kick. It is a regular occurrence, I’m _fine_.”

He really wasn’t, but he was already so animated with ideas that terminating now over a contraction that had caught him off guard was not something he was willing to entertain as an option. There was still time.

Sherlock looked to the startled mother, making a visible effort to regain his calm. “Please continue.”

“Well… yes, I think she was on a dating site. She had just finished with her boyfriend.”

Almost immediately forgetting the spell of unpleasantness, Sherlock brought his hands together in thought. “Fresh out of a relationship and she signs up to a dating website. Interesting.” He stepped back out of his own mind, addressing the mother again. “What was her boyfriend’s name?”

Ms Barlow straightened, looking between the two of them with upset horror. “You think he did it?”

Ever the angel of mercy, Lestrade stepped in again. “Maybe we should end it here.”

“No, I’m almost finished.” Sherlock said. “His _name._ ” Another glare from the detective inspector. “… Please.”

The mother looked like she would be in need of a new tissue. “His… his name was Myles. Myles Sanders.”

“And where is your daughter’s mobile phone?”

“She had it with her that night, in her bag. The police have got it.”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed at her, and he very almost smiled, satisfied with the information he had gained. “Excellent. Thank you for your time, Ms Barlow. You’ve been very useful.”

When he began to stand, Lestrade stood with him and was immediately at the woman’s side, putting an arm around her and offering her a fresh packet of tissues as she began to cry, sobbing her dead daughter’s name over and over again. Sherlock reached the door, his mind filled with ideas, until he cast a glance back and felt a stab of… _something_. Curious. Never had he felt the need to take a second glance before.

Then again, he had never faced parenthood and a parent who had lost a child both at once before. He concluded that what he was feeling was most likely compassion. One parent to another.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Sherlock said, achieving gentleness at long last. “Truly I am.”

With that, he left the room.


	5. Panic

_10:15am, six hours since labour started._

Since arriving back at the flat, Sherlock had occupied himself in the messy office space that had become the living room. The contractions, though not yet continuous, were becoming difficult to ignore. Unluckily, John did not have a shift at the surgery today, so Sherlock found himself waiting on the edge of his endurance for him to leave the room, so that he could drop the facade momentarily to give vent to the pain.

Hatefully, their flat was still quite open, so Sherlock was to be silent as he leant heavily over the table and slowly breathed around the awful squeezes. As the hour progressed, silence was becoming an increasing effort.

"So you think the boyfriend did it?" John asked from his armchair, examining some casenotes in his hands. Sherlock, sitting at the table whilst typing on the laptop, shook his head.

"No. The killer was a stranger to the victim, the boyfriend doesn't come into it."

John turned his face up to him. "Then why did you want his name?"

Slightly, Sherlock smirked at the computer screen. The bouts of pain had made him significantly slower, but it was clever moments like this that helped him forget about it. "She had an account on a less-than secure dating website, I needed to learn the password. Of course it was going to be the name of her ex-boyfriend. Classic rebound."

John looked impressed, a look that sent a spark of delight through Sherlock.

Until a contraction swiftly followed, and he clenched his fist under the table.

Voice slightly tight, Sherlock continued, "The victim had been exchanging messages with her killer who, evidently, was purposely pursuing her because of her similarities to Elizabeth Short, the original victim of the original murder. He praised her, lavished her with admiration. Young, impressionable girl, fresh out of a relationship, she found it flattering. She was getting the affection that she craved from the boyfriend."

"You okay?" John cut in, his face suddenly etched with concern. "You're... shaking."

Sherlock was slightly taken aback. _No John, not now._

"I'm fine," he said, already tired of using the word. "Just kicks."

Ruthlessly squashing the pain aside, Sherlock swallowed hard and heaved himself out of the chair, holding the underside of his stomach as he did. It had become excruciatingly heavy, there had been an obvious downward shift some time within the last six-seven hours. _Baby's head entering the birth canal. Increasing dilation. Waters haven't broken yet. Still time._

He eased himself into his usual armchair opposite John, whose brow was still slightly dug with worry. "You sure you're okay?"

" _Fine_." Sherlock insisted, shifting himself to retrieve something from his pocket. It was a mobile phone. "The victim's mobile phone."

The mention had been completely deliberate. At this point, Sherlock would much rather be told off for taking items from Scotland Yard's evidence room than have John continue to be concerned. John played his part perfectly, blinking disapproval. "You're going to get Lestrade fired one of these days. You can't keep... "

"The killer made the mistake of exchanging contact details online. I knew there'd be a mistake, there's always room for human error." Sherlock's eyes glittered as he looked down at the phone, grinning to himself as he began to tap in a number. "Let's see how our murderer is faring."

"You're... calling the killer."

Still grinning, Sherlock looked up at him as though the answer was simple. "Of course. Tried and true method of panicking a killer, if you recall. Surely you haven't forgotten our first case."

A pause, where John couldn't help but smile a bit himself and tilt his head slightly in a 'fair enough' motion. There was no forgetting their first case, John even went as far as to call it his favourite. He leant forward and knotted his hands together between his knees, watching in silence as Sherlock finished dialling and held the phone up, for both of them to hear.

The phone rang, and for a while it seemed as though there would be no answer. Until there was.

_"... A-Amy? Hello? Who's this?"_

Sherlock's expression lit up, his lips curling into a smile, absolutely delighted with this result. He hung up, and immediately got to his feet. "We have to go back to Scotland Yard. I can trace the call and find the killer's location. Then we can pay him a little visit."

" _The police_ can pay him a little visit. You're not barging down any doors, Sherlock."

Sherlock was already pulling on his coat. "The number was a London area code, he can't be far. We have to hurry before he decides to move."

Sighing, John could see that Sherlock wasn't listening and he reminded himself again that he was damage control. At the very least, he had negotiated a few weeks 'off' once the baby was born, Sherlock wasn't about to back out of that. Sighing again, John shrugged on his own coat and headed towards the front door. "I'll get us a cab then, shall I."

Sherlock made a sound of acknowledgement as he bustled about the room, barely noticing John leave as his mind remained solely on the case. Until he prepared to leave himself and was suddenly halted in the doorway of the flat, pain climbing up his sides. "Oh- oh god," he gasped, eyes blown wide as he leant heavily against the wall and pressed a hand to his side. It was the worst one yet, and it was _relentlessly_ long.

Before Sherlock could collapse to the floor, it eased off. He spent a moment in shock, breathing slowly. His defenses were clearly crumbling, if John had been present then he would have been immediately frogmarched to hospital.

"I'm almost there," he quietly panted, as he dragged himself out of the flat. "Just give me a little longer, then I will see to you."

_Bargaining with my unborn child. I must be desperate._


	6. Time

Through some kind of miracle, Sherlock managed to remain inconspicuous during the eight minute cab journey. His hands twisted in his lap and he writhed slightly in his seat, but it was nothing that he couldn’t pass off as a chill or more kicks if John asked. Controlled breathing was becoming nigh impossible – with every contraction, his heart raced and his breath was robbed, he wanted to pant. It hurt so, so badly.

When they exited the taxi, Sherlock let out a hard breath and lead the way to Lestrade’s office.

“You alright there, freak?” Sally said upon seeing him, crossing her arms and purposely standing in the way of the corridor that lead to Lestrade. “You’re all red in the face.”

John didn’t want to admit it in front of Sally, but he had said the very same thing (sans ‘freak’) in the taxi. He eyed Sherlock carefully.

Ignoring them, Sherlock said with strain, “I need to see Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

The sergeant had already spotted the phone in his hand, and looked a mix of outrage and smugness. “Oi, is that… it is! Stealing from the evidence room, that’s jail time, that is.”

“I haven’t time for this, let me by.”

“Um, excuse me,” Sally stood her ground when Sherlock tried to barge past her, pointing her index finger at him in warning. “Don’t think that just because you’re knocked up I won’t throw you into a jail cell, freak. Gagging for the opportunity, personally.”

At that moment, John stepped between them, with his own vicious warning look. “You can try.”

“Don’t think I wouldn’t chuck you in too, _doctor_.”

As the sergeant and doctor squabbled, Sherlock turned away from them, barely hearing them. Something else was demanding his attention, a punishing contraction that was proceeding to tear slowly through him. He bent right over, arms wrapped around his middle and face tight with pain. _Only a little longer, I can endure, I can… oh god I can’t take this any longer._

“Sherlock?”

_John please help me I can’t…_

“I’m fine,” he repeated his favourite lie, forcibly straightening himself up and searching desperately for a place where he could recover and carry on. He needed to track the call still. Toilets. “I just need to… use…”

Sherlock dismissed himself without finishing and quickly fled into the nearest toilet, stumbling to the sink and leaning heavily over it, curling around his elbows and panting desperately. _No, no I still have four to five hours before I am out of time, it can’t be coming now._ Of course, John followed right behind him, his eyes wide with alarm. Sally followed too, hovering cautiously. “Is… is he okay?”

She was answered by Sherlock's agonised exhale, which made John’s panic rise sharply. “What do you bloody think? Call him an ambulance, now.”

As the startled Sally turned away to stab 999 into the nearest office phone, John turned his attentions back to Sherlock, who sagged against him and panted frantically; quickly escalating into a high, frail cry. Whatever composure Sherlock had managed to maintain over the last seven hours had completely leaked away.

“It’s okay, paramedics are on the way.” John soothed, carefully sitting Sherlock onto the floor when it became clear that he could no longer stand. He sat his labouring partner against a cubicle wall, taking his hand and holding it tightly. When John looked down at Sherlock’s spread legs, he could see a large damp patch around his crotch and thighs. Feeling a lump in his throat, he uttered through his shock, “Jesus, it’s coming fast.”

Sherlock groaned again as it passed off, catching his breath and shaking his head in protest. “No, I can’t have it now, I still need to… to… “ _Oh god I need to push._

“Look, forget about the case now. This is more important.”

It started up again, making Sherlock arch his back and scream.


	7. Attachment

Their daughter was born en route to the hospital.

On arrival, the baby was taken to be checked over and Sherlock was wheeled to a private room to rest. For the first time since being aware of the case, Sherlock did not think about it. He had failed by his own standards – the case remained unfinished and the killer still at large, but the stress, along with the excruciating labour and birth, had left him completely and utterly spent.

As soon as the lights were dimmed and John was at his side, telling him how much he loved him and how beautiful their daughter was, Sherlock sighed and went to sleep.

* * *

When Sherlock awoke, it was well into the evening. Eight hours since he gave birth in the back of an ambulance. Though the room was even more darkened than it had been before, when Sherlock tiredly glanced about he could see that the room was littered with cards, soft toy animals and 'It's a girl!' balloons. Also significant, an empty bedside cot. _Where..._

He shifted slightly beneath the bedsheet, wincing as he sensed just how sore and fatigued his body was. Face twisted with discomfort, he slowly began to ease himself into a sitting-up position. As he did, the door to the room opened and John entered, cradling a tiny mass wrapped in linen blankets.

"Hey, hey. Take it easy," John said, though smilingly, as he softly approached the bed, patting the underside of the bundle. "You're still going to be a bit tender where they cut you."

"Delightful." Sherlock groaned, settling back into the pillows. Once comfortable enough, he finally managed to exchange tired smiles with John, who had seated himself on the edge of the bed. "We've had visitors." Sherlock indicated the mounds of congratulatory gifts.

"Yeah, while you were asleep. Harry visited, had a little cuddle and gave us a card. Lestrade said he'd visit once he got off work." John quietly replied. "I think the rest of it is from Mrs Hudson. Shot over the minute I called her, with about ten gift bags in tow."

Sherlock was barely listening, his eyes fixed on the swathe of blankets in John's arms. He couldn't see her, in fact, he couldn't remember seeing her when she was born. There had been burning pain, disorientation, then something warm and squealing had been placed on his chest briefly but not long enough to bond with. Then she had been taken as he succumbed to exhaustion. Sherlock then realised that his hands were already raised, "I want to hold her."

Smiling, John scooted a little closer. "Of course."

She was transferred into her other father's arms, and for a moment, Sherlock did nothing. He simply observed as the little girl shifted a little and turned her large, serious eyes up at him, as though observing him back.

"Curious little thing." John doted, lightly stroking her tufts of blonde hair.

"Yes." Sherlock vacantly said. Curious indeed.

A few moments longer of staring silence.

"John."

"Yeah?"

"I fear I may be becoming attached."

John laughed at that, nodding in assent but no comment was needed. Their daughter was pale, quiet and charming; the latter, Sherlock noted, must have come from her Watson genes. She was clearly on the verge of sleep, typical of newborns, but so enchanted by all this new stimuli, she fought to stay awake. Her small pink mouth stretched in a yawn and she squinted as she moved her tongue over her bottom lip, as though testing it to see what it was for.

"She's very alert." John noted, having evidently been watching her closely over the last few hours. "And impatient, apparently. That was probably the quickest labour I've ever seen. Whooshed out, didn’t you, darlin’? Yeah,” he cooed into the baby’s face, lightly tickling her cheek. She turned her face towards his finger, mouth open.

Something akin to guilt prodded uncomfortably at Sherlock. There was no point in keeping it a secret any longer, and having John find out at a later time would blow it wildly out of proportion, so Sherlock sheepishly said, "It wasn't... _that_ quick."

"Hm?"

With a sigh, Sherlock tossed his head and admitted in a way that a child would begrudingly admit to breaking another child's toy, "I was in labour for several hours beforehand. I intentionally kept it from you."

John stiffened and his contented expression fell. "You _what_?"

"I had to, John. If you were to find out, you would have removed me from the case and confined me to the flat for the entire duration of-"

"You think I'm capable of stopping you when you're on a case?" John interrupted, his frustration and apparent betrayal at being kept in the dark showing. "I would have kept a closer eye on you, yeah, but I wouldn't have just forced you to deal with labour without an effective distraction. I wish you'd told me, Sherlock. At least then we could have avoided you almost giving birth in the bloody Scotland Yard loos."

A moment of stunned silence, where Sherlock reeled over his initial thoughts in contrast to what John had just told him. He then looked down, as though embarrassed, and uttered out an "Oh."

"Yeah, 'oh'."

Another pause. This time, when Sherlock spoke, it was tinged with shame. "I'm sorry, John."

There was a lot John could have said; do you not trust me, she's my baby too, what if something had happened, all I want to do is keep you safe, etc etc. But, though it was tempting, he decided that he would not start an argument now. They would make a new start with the baby, and that would begin with honesty. Though he would definitely be talking to Sherlock about it later, for now, he was forgiven.

"Come here, you idiot." John leant over, kissing Sherlock's head and putting his arm around his shoulders. "No more secrets."

"It was fruitless anyway," Sherlock said with a strong sense of self disappointment. All that effort, wasted. "I failed to find the killer. Probably already fled the country by now."

Again, John laughed. This startled Sherlock and he sharply looked up at him, "What?"

Shaking his head with amusement, John reached into his pocket and produced his phone. "The police aren't as stupid as you think, Sherlock. _They_ traced the call, once they got the victim's phone back, and they made an arrest." After flicking over the screen with his thumb, he showed it to Sherlock. A text from Lestrade.

_Our man confessed. Tell Sherlock I said thanks. - GL_

John continued, "Turns out you were right. He hadn't killed before, and they did arrange to meet up online. Turns out he was obsessed with recreating the Black Dahlia and offered her money to be the victim. She thought it was an acting job."

"And he never corrected her." Sherlock concluded, his mind in deduction mode. "He had convinced himself that he had a willing participant and, in his own mind, he was doing nothing wrong if she had consented to meet with him. Despite the fact that he did not intend to pay her any money at all and had kept her in the dark about various details."

He grinned with immense satisfaction, feeling that usual, wonderful lift that came with a solved case. "Brilliant."

Not bothering to remind him that a girl had died and maybe he shouldn't look quite so happy about it, John looked down adoringly at their daughter, who had given in to sleep. He smiled, finding her absolutely angelic. He could only hope she stayed that way.

"She needs a name." John said.

Coming down from his intellectual high, Sherlock positively glowed. He looked down at the sleeping girl himself, quirking an eyebrow and holding that grin slightly, as he brought forward his suggestion. "Well, if I'm to be honest, I've grown quite fond of Dahlia."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's a wrap. Thanks for reading everybody. (:


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